


substitute

by zeraparker



Series: the one he can't deny [1]
Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunkenness, Exhibitionism, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 22:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19050205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeraparker/pseuds/zeraparker
Summary: substitute/ˈsʌbstɪtjuːt/noun1. a person or thing acting or serving in place of another.Set after Prais ePrix 2019. Andre and Carl end up having sex at Jev's flat. That is, before the door opens.'Threesome but not quite' should be a tag.





	substitute

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shallow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18718459) by [lost_decade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade). 



> Heavily inspired by the lovely lost_decade and how utterly handsome Carl is IRL. Seriously, that man!

With a sigh, Andre lies back on the bed. The shift in perspective makes his head spin. Fuck, he’s drunk. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, fights down the slight wave of nausea that’s churning in his stomach, twists his fingers into the sheets to anchor himself, to make the room stop spinning. Jev’s sheets. Well, the sheets of his guest bedroom. It’s the next best thing. They smell the same, and he turns his head to the side, inhales deeply.

“You okay?”

Andre opens his eyes, stares at the high ceiling for a moment before he looks down along his body to where Carl is kneeling at the foot of the bed, between Andre’s knees. His hands are resting warm and heavy on Andre’s thighs. Andre curls his socked toes against the thick carpet that’s covering the hardwood floor beneath the bed, running his toes against the outside of Carl’s leg.

“Why did you stop?” Andre complains, flailing with his hand. Carl laughs throatily but dips his head down to nuzzle along the length of Andre’s hard cock through the fabric of his slacks. Andre lets out a satisfied groan, twisting his fingers into the long strands of Carl’s hair now within reach, moans softly when the growl Carl lets out makes hot breath push through the layers covering his cock.

He is going to regret this in the morning, he knows. Not the sex with Carl: there’s a kind of routine to the mutual pleasure they get from the relief of stress and tension and too much built up adrenaline of a race weekend. They’re a good fit in that regard, the easy acquaintance that’s grown between them over the past year. Andre wouldn’t call them friends, not quite, but that only makes it easier to find each other after a race, in the quiet hours changing planes in some airport asleep around them. They’ve never been in a bed with each other, a luxury unnecessary for the handjobs that get each other off so efficiently, the blowjobs Andre likes so much. It’s usually him on his knees for Carl, but he doesn’t think he’s got his gag reflex under enough control with how much alcohol he’s consumed, the churning in his stomach.

It’s _that_ he’s going to regret, the alcohol artificially drawing out the adrenaline high from the day of racing that’s always stressful, the schedule cramming it into a single day not giving the body enough time to recuperate between sessions. A bit like Le Mans in that regard, the way it leaves him strung out and exhausted by the end of it, the drop after adrenaline depletion the next day more than just the physical strain he puts on his body. Already he can feel his nerves fraying, the claws of the antisocial mood he’s dragged into hooked under his skin, desperate to push off the plunge for just a little longer.

The sudden shocking wet heat around his cock jolts him out of his spiralling thoughts. He moans loudly. His fingers tightening in Carl’s hair make Carl punish him with an almost painful drag of teeth as he moves his head up, sucking strongly. He’s opened the front of Andre’s pants, pushed the zipper and the fabric of his underwear out of the way without Andre even noticing, his lips stretched around the girth of Andre’s cock, a smug twinkle in his eyes. He ducks his head down again, leaving his cock glistening with saliva in the half light of the room when he pulls his head away, grabbing him firmly in his palm.

“You’re so out of it,” Carl says, his voice amused and a little in awe. He licks his lips, his hand moving steadily up and down Andre’s cock, tight and slow.

Andre groans. “Make me come, arsehole.” He feels too hot, the button down he’s still wearing askew over the t shirt underneath, constricting in the way it’s bunched up beneath his weight. He lets go of Carl’s hair, fumbles with the buttons, frustrated when they don’t give way quick enough, sits up just far enough to jerk his t shirt over his head once he’s struggled out of the long sleeves of his button down.

Carl looks at his bare chest appreciatively, his free hand roaming to stroke over the planes of Andre’s stomach. He leans over him, bites at the protrusion of a hip bone, nuzzles at the soft skin around Andre’s belly button, making Andre squirm. He lets go of Andre’s cock, hooks his fingers under the waistband of his slacks and underwear and drags them down to midthigh, giving himself more space. He cups Andre’s balls with his hand, massaging him as he dips his head back down, drawing the tip of his cock back into his mouth, tongue playing over the tip to lick beneath the edge of his foreskin, licking away the drops of precome having gathered there and driving Andre wild.

The door opens suddenly, not quite strong enough to bounce into the wall next to it. Jev’s long fingers curl around the edge of the door to hold onto it or hold himself up, Andre isn’t quite sure. He’s got a half empty bottle of vodka in his hand, his button-down shirt is half undone and sticks wetly to the side of his chest. He straightens, still holding onto the edge of the door as he takes in the room, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times like he doesn’t know what to say.

“Fuck.”

The door falls into the lock. Somehow, Jev is still in the room.

Andre groans, closing his eyes, lifting his arm to cover his face with it, hide. He keens when Carl pulls back, the gust of his voice cool against Andre’s damp cock.

“You gonna watch or you gonna help?” Carl asks, his voice rough, a curious quirk to it that Andre can’t place, doesn’t know what to do with. The words send another bolt of arousal through him. Fuck, he is not going to last, no matter what. He waits for that laugh, that weird, unsexy laugh he likes so much, but Jean-Eric is curiously still, and then Carl’s mouth is back on him, swallowing him down deep, and for a long moment the whole room just turns white around Andre, disappearing behind the onslaught of pleasure.

It’s exquisite, the strong suction, the rasp of stubble against his skin, the rough hands trying to push his thighs further apart despite the restrictions of the slacks he’s still tangled up in. Andre reaches out for him unseeingly, his fingers carding through the long strands of hair, and for a breathless second he thinks it’s Jev’s hair his fingers are tangled in, tugging on, holding his head down as his hips buck up involuntarily. He pulls back despite the firm grip Andre has on his hair, his hand wrapping around the base of Andre’s cock tightly, sucking only on the tip of his dick, the foreskin pulled back with every thrust as Andre rolls his hips up again and again, sucking only on the glistening tip, the flat of his tongue pressing against the sensitive underside of it. It’s good, it’s really fucking good, but Andre wants to push him back down, choke him on his dick, push in so deep he can’t breathe. A high whine escapes his lips, bucking up again.

“Please,” Andre gasps, his head spinning. As if in reply, Jean-Eric moans loudly. The sound, something Andre only every dreamt of or listened to muted by walls too thin to entirely cover them, pushes him over the edge, disorients him at the same time. Jev’s voice as he curses is too far away, at odds with the clever mouth that’s still on his cock, milking the last drops of come from him, sucking him through the aftershocks.

Blearily Andre opens his eyes. His gaze first falls on Jean-Eric, leaning against the sideboard on the far side of the room, watching them intently. He’s set the bottle of vodka down next to his elbow, holds himself up with one arm against the sideboard, his other hand rubbing over the distinct shape of his hard cock beneath the fabric of his dress pants, tenting the expensive material. Andre’s eyes linger there for a long moment before he focusses on the immediate vicinity, the bulk of Carl’s body still between his spread thighs, Carl’s fingers still loosely around his softening cock. Andre stretches his fingers, murmurs an apology. He averts his eyes from the lascivious curl around the corners of Carl’s mouth, the knowing twinkle in his eyes. Carl dips his head down, leaving an obscenely slurpy kiss against Andre’s twitching cock.

Carl puts his full weight on Andre’s thighs as he braces himself to get to his feet. He’s broad enough to easily hide Jean-Eric’s slender form behind himself as he sets about unbuttoning his own dress shirt. He isn’t wearing anything underneath, and Andre gets hung up on watching him undoing the buttons one by one, more and more of his muscular chest exposed. He’s got the satisfying build of someone who does sport for fun, not restricted by weight or an ideal stature, training regularly enough to allow the muscles to grow naturally. There’s a certain vanity to it that Andre appreciates, in the same way he appreciates the lines of a beautiful car or the curves of Spa; each their own wet dream.

The shirt flutters to the floor. Carl tugs the belt from the belt loops with a soft swishing noise, his eyes roaming over Andre’s mostly naked body. Before he takes off his own trousers he leans down, reaching for the hems of Andre’s slacks, pulling unceremoniously until Andre’s legs are free, his feet hitting the floor again. With a bump of his knee against Andre’s, Carl makes him close his legs, the mattress dipping as he climbs onto the bed, straddling Andre’s lap.

“You got supplies?”

Jean-Eric’s voice startles them both. Carl wobbles a little on the squishy mattress as he turns his head to look over his shoulder, frowning. Andre lets out a shaky breath, turning to the side but Carl’s weight on him has him pinned, keeping Jean-Eric out of his line of sight until Jean-Eric suddenly starts moving, heading for the door and out into the hallway without a glance back.

Carl turns back towards him, one eyebrow raised in a mix of confusion and bewilderment, momentarily having forgotten about Jean-Eric’s presence behind him as much as Andre. He shakes his head, his hair flying wildly, mused as they are from Andre’s groping, and lets himself fall forwards, landing with his hands braced either side of Andre’s head. He leans to the side, lifting one hand to run the pad of his thumb over Andre’s sweat-damp upper lip, smudging the moustache painted there. Andre chases his thumb with his tongue, turning his face to draw him into his mouth. Carl’s breathing goes shallow as he sucks on it, plays his tongue over the whorls on the pad of his thumb, bites it teasingly.

The door bangs open again. Then a couple items hit the bed next to Andre’s left shoulder. He cranes his neck to see the bottle of lube and strip of condoms Jean-Eric has tossed onto the mattress. He bites down on Carl’s thumb again absentmindedly, making a chocked noise when Carl presses down on his tongue using the grip he has on Andre to turn his head back, look at him. Andre can feel saliva spill from the corner of his mouth, unable to do anything against it the way Carl has him pinned.

It’s not what they usually do. It’s just not. They’ve fallen into these little inconsequential encounters by sheer convenience: a stranger’s hand always feels better than his own, a stranger’s mouth even more so. He likes sex, damn it, he likes the pleasure, he’s too old to deprive himself out of some misguided sense of modesty.

He glances up, meeting Carl’s eyes, but his expression is unreadable. There’s only one way this might go, with how Carl is hard and straining against him where he’s straddling Andre’s lap, his own body still twitchy and oversensitive from his recent orgasm, and fuck, even if he wanted, he’s too drunk and too damn old to get it up again this quickly.

It’s like a battle gauntlet thrown on the bed next to them, a challenge neither of them asked for. Andre can see the hesitation clearly in Carl’s eyes, but then he leans down, drags his thumb from Andre’s mouth to press the saliva slick pad of it against the soft underside of Andre’s jaw, angles his head for a kiss that’s all consuming as he licks into him, steals his breath away as his tongue curls against Andre’s suggestively, and fuck it, Andre wants to.

“You better make this good,” Andre murmurs after they break the kiss, leans up to bite at Carl’s jaw, his stubble prickly against Andre’s lips. He bucks his hips up and scrambles to turn over when he feels Carl’s weight lift off his body, trying to arrange himself on the squashy mattress.

Strong hands grab him around the waist, push him further up the bed. Andre flails for a moment, before he digs his fingers into the sheets, lifts his head from the pillow his face has been pushed into unceremoniously. It smells of his own hair product, the pillow case having taken on his scent from the nights he’s slept in this bed, but below that he can still smell the scent of Jean-Eric’s laundry detergent. He pulls the pillow towards himself, wraps his arms around it and buries his face in it, zoning out for a moment as he allows Carl to arrange his legs, feeling the touch of his hands along his hips, over his thighs. He shivers deliciously, rolling his hips up in offering, bites back a soft noise when the fingers dig into his skin appreciatively.

It's been a while since he’s done this. The alcohol relaxes him, keeps him from squirming away when he feels slick fingers playing him open, but it also dulls the sensations. He can feel himself grow impatient before long, pressing his arse back against the fingers steadily thrusting into him, with an urge he’ll probably regret in the morning. He pulls his knees towards his body to give himself more leverage, can feel Carl lean over him, kiss and bite at his back. He reaches behind himself with one hand, finding Carl’s fingers clutching at his hip, covering his hand as he twists his head to the side to get a glimpse of Carl over his shoulder.

Jev is sitting in the arm chair next to the bed. Andre blinks, his vision blurring slightly, momentarily disoriented. He never heard Jev move. Then again, he’s really rather distracted. He groans when he feels the fingers twist inside him, his eyes half closing, making the image of Jev blur in front of his eyes. He’s slouched deep in the low leather chair barely more than two arms lengths away from the bed. His legs are spread wide, his dress pants undone, his hand stuffed down the front of them. His eyes are lazy, roaming over the display on the bed. Before their eyes can meet, Andre closes his again. He doesn’t want to know what Jev sees, what he thinks. Andre’s still got his fucking socks on.

The sudden blunt pressure of Carl’s cock has Andre bite the inside of his cheek.

“Come on,” Andre grits out, hearing Carl curse, feeling the satisfying burn as he thrusts inside. Twisting his fingers back into the sheets, Andre tries to hang on, to set something against the steady pressure that threatens to push him up against the headboard.

“Fuck, I knew you’d be hot together.”

Andre exhales deeply. He pushes himself up on his elbows, lets his head hang, his fingers dug into the sheets. He lets Jev’s words wash over him, unable to grasp his tone or all the implications behind them. The fabric of Carl’s slacks and the metal teeth of his zipper push against the back of his thighs with every one of his thrusts. He’s still got one hand clamped vice-like around Andre’s hip; the other curled against the small of his back starts moving up his spine, fingers splaying wide to wrap around his shoulder, thumb pressing against the vertebrae at the back of his neck.

“Yeah, hold him down.”

Carl’s fingers twitch against Andre’s neck. Andre groans when Carl’s cock rubs against his prostate, sending a wave of almost too much sensation through him, his own cock twitching in sympathy. Fuck, he wants to come again, the impossibility of it tearing at his nerves. He twists his hips to change the angle slightly, making the sensations bearable.

Another string of French cursing has Andre blink his eyes open, turn his head. Jean-Eric has his pants undone, the slick tip of his dick visible where he’s jerking himself unashamedly. His eyes are roaming over their bodies, watching them, eating them up. Is he like that in bed, Andre wonders. What does he see? Does he imagine himself in Andre’s position, held down and fucked open, or does he want to be the one holding him down, testing how hard he can fuck him, when he’ll break.

“Aw, fuck,” Carl grits out, and Andre can tell that he is close, his rhythm faltering, becoming more erratic. A couple more thrusts, and his fingers tighten on Andre’s hip as he pushes in deep, holding himself there with little rolling flexes of his hips as he spills into the condom.

The sudden stillness makes Andre sway back into a movement that isn’t there anymore, making him dizzy. He swallows down the nausea but can’t keep himself from making a small noise as Carl pulls away, sitting back on the bed as he catches his breath, his hand aimlessly petting Andre’s hip. Andre sinks forwards into the mattress, into the softness of the pillows, trying to centre himself.

“You’re not going to fall asleep in that chair, are you?” Carl’s words make Andre turn his head.

Jev is slumped into the armchair, his head rolled back on the low backrest, exposing the long line of his throat. He blinks at Carl lazily, lifting his hand in a half-hearted rude gesture towards him. His spent cock is lying against his lower stomach, droplets of milky spunk still clinging to it, stains on the fabric of his shirt. His skin is flushed. Andre wants to drag him into the bed, wants to feel the heat of Jev’s skin against his own, wants to taste him, lick him clean.

Instead, he closes his eyes again when Jev starts tugging himself away, righting his shirt. He lies motionless as he listens to Jev get to his feet, tunes out what he and Carl are saying. The exhaustion and alcohol he consumed are threatening to tip him over into unconsciousness, but he only allows himself to relax once he hears the door shut behind him. When he finally succumbs, the darkness is all encompassing.

 

 

For a long moment, Carl is unsure what woke him. Then the cool draft stroking over his exposed chest registers with his brain and he groans, pulling the blanket higher around himself. He blinks against the late morning light, listens to the street noise outside the opened balcony door. Andre is standing just inside the room, leaning against the door frame, the scent of his cigarette smoke drifting in. Carl watches him for a long moment: the button-down from the night before Andre has drawn tight around his wide shoulders, the black boxer briefs clinging to the shape of his arse and thighs. One of his legs is jiggling nervously. He shifts, lifting one socked foot to rub his toes against the back of his other leg.

The bed creaks as he rolls onto his back, blinks up at the ceiling. His head is in that weird clear phase before hangover; there’s still too much alcohol in his system to make him feel the consequences. Give it an hour or two, and his brain will be throbbing. He rubs his hands over his face, pushing himself up to his elbows.

Andre doesn’t react when Carl gets up from the bed, slipping into his discarded slacks from the night before. He does up the zipper, doesn’t bother to pick up his belt before he heads out into the hallway, into the bathroom on the other side. He takes a piss, closing his eyes against the starker light of the overhead lamp in the bathroom, much less gentle on his frayed senses. After washing his hands, he dips his head over the sink, splashing water onto his face. He cups his hand under the faucet to take a mouthful of tap water, swirling it around his mouth before he spits it back into the sink. It doesn’t really help with the bad taste on his tongue.

The rest of the flat is still sleep-silent. Carl stands in the hallway, listening, but there is nothing more than the tick of the clock on the wall. The sudden movement at the open door leading into the living room catches his eyes, but it’s only Jev’s cat that’s stuck its head out to investigate, disappearing back into the room as soon as he turns towards it. He doesn’t follow it, not keen to discover who’s crashed on the sofa after the party last night; he has no idea how many people and in what constellations have spend the night here, and he doesn’t care to find out.

Andre does turn as Carl opens the bedroom door again. Carl lets the draft carry the door closed behind him, shivering in the cold air. The bottle of vodka Jev had brought with him the night before is still standing on the sideboard and he goes to pick it up, unscrews the cap and takes a swig, sloshing it around his mouth.

“What. It’s not like I brought a toothbrush,” he says under Andre’s slanted gaze. He sets the bottle back down on the sideboard, walking over towards him. “Got one for me?” he asks, gesturing for the crumpled pack of cigarettes bulking out the front pocket of Andre’s dress shirt. Andre takes it out of his pocket, shaking out a cigarette he gives to Carl, and a packet of matches, the logo of some hotel chain printed on the side. He lights a match, cupping it with his hands against the draft, and Carl leans in to light the cigarette, the first inhale of smoke and nicotine like a hit to the head. “Thanks.” Andre inclines his head, taking his own cigarette that’s almost burned down to the filter from his lips, leaning out onto the balcony to dip the ash into an ashtray on the wrought iron table.

Carl shivers, curling his cold toes against the floorboards, rubs a hand through his hair again. He isn’t awake enough for this yet. Without a word, he turns back around, observing the room. Their wine glasses, empty apart from a smudge of red dried to the bottom, are still on the sideboard. Carl picks one up and carries it towards the bed. He undoes the button and zipper on his slacks one-handedly, allowing the fabric to slide off his legs before he sits down on the edge of the mattress, getting back into the soft sheets of the bed. He sits back against the headboard, pulling the blanket up around his waist. He can feel Andre’s eyes on him as he flicks the ash off the tip of his cigarette into the empty wine glass. He can’t tell whether it’s disapproval or admiration in Andre’s eyes; he does see the challenge in them though. Taking another long drag from the cigarette, Carl reaches across the bed, flicking back the sheets, the invitation as clear as if he’d spoken out loud.

The fabric of Andre’s shirt flutters to the floor when he slides it off his shoulders. He toes off his socks mid-step. Carl doesn’t hide his hungry gaze as he looks him over, makes a little appreciative noise around the filter of the cigarette between his lips when he watches Andre dig his thumbs behind the waistband of his boxer briefs, pushing them down and stepping out of them before he reaches the bed. The skin of his arm is cold when he sits down against the headboard, leaning against Carl’s shoulder. Carl can feel the tension in his body where they touch. He’s staring straight ahead, but Carl doesn’t think he’s seeing anything.

In lieu of anything, Carl tips the ashes off the cigarette and then holds it into Andre’s line of sight, almost relieved when Andre leans forwards, catching the filter with his mouth. When he leans back, he slouches slightly, resting his head against Carl’s shoulder. Carl lifts his hand, stroking his fingers over the stubble around Andre’s jaw, up to his ear and the shorter hair along his temple, feeling him slowly relax, turn into the touch. He steals the cigarette back before the ash can drip onto the sheets, taking a last drag before he lets the stub fall into the empty wine glass. He stretches his arm, setting the glass down on the bedside table.

When he turns back, Andre is gazing up at him through half-lidded eyes. He licks at his lips, twists a little further, and Carl meets him halfway. Andre tastes of smoke, lazy sweeps of his tongue drawing Carl in, making him reach out to cup Andre’s jaw again, angle his head, so different to their usual frantic fucking around, to the proceedings of the night before. Post-race blues, Jev had called it once when Carl had asked him about the moods he fell victim to at the end of a race weekend, had likened it to the weird headspace Carl had been in after returning from Burning Man, when the rest of the world had seemed just that little bit less colourful, that little bit less real. He doesn’t know why he’d thought Andre immune to the same: maybe because of his long career, maybe because he always seems so in control of himself, his media image so seamlessly fitting him that Carl suspects years of training behind it, wants to applaud whoever taught him.

Being allowed in like this feels like a privilege. Andre makes a soft little noise, drawing back with a shaking breath, but Carl doesn’t want to let him get away. He follows Andre’s lips, bites at his jaw, can feel the shiver run down Andre’s neck. Andre allows him to tilt his head for another kiss, his mouth slack under Carl’s lips and tongue, pliant and open.

“Fuck me again?” His words are soft, barely more than a whisper, almost lost between their mouths, like Andre doesn’t really dare to ask. Carl feels arousal rush through him, nodding erratically, then shifts when Andre moves to straddle his lap, arms closing behind Carl’s neck to hold himself close. He’s a heavy weight in Carl’s lap, bearing him down into the mattress and back against the headboard. Carl’s hands instinctively go to his hips, cupping his arse, their groins pressed together, and he eats up the sounds Andre is making as their cocks rubs against each other.

It’s easy to get lost in the slow kiss, in the gentle rocking of their bodies. Carl reaches out for the bedside table at one point, fingers knocking the wine glass to the carpet, spilling a smudge of ash onto the thick fabric. He finds the lube and condoms, feels Andre sigh shakily against his lips when he touches him with cool, slick fingers, eats up the breathy noise Andre makes when he breaches him. He is more relaxed than the night before, working himself back into the steady pressure of Carl’s fingers, eagerness creeping into the leisurely movement of his hips. Andre isn’t ready, Carl can tell, despite Andre whispering to make him go on, but maybe Andre hasn’t been ready for any of this, maybe Carl hasn’t been either. He knows this feeling of flirting with the edge though, so he doesn’t try and belittle Andre’s needs by asking for clarification, by making him wait. He fumbles with the condom between their bodies, smearing lube against the underside of the blanket, the fabric sticking against Andre’s lower back.

A gust of wind has them both shiver, making Carl drag the blanket higher around Andre’s shoulders in a bid to keep the draft away, to cocoon them into the heat of their bodies. He can see the door to the hallway that’s never entirely fallen into its lock sway in the breeze, drift open, but the apartment is still quiet, and Andre is caught in his own head, barely making a noise as he impales himself on Carl’s cock, sinking down on him with a quiet exhale shuddering out between clenched teeth, and Carl closes his eyes, shuts out everything but the tight, wet feel of the body around him, Andre’s solid weight in his lap.

The hangover mellows his arousal, takes away some of the urge that had grabbed him the night before, letting them draw it out. They quickly find a rhythm that’s more a slow deep grind than a quick fuck. Carl rubs his hands up over Andre’s back, feeling the muscles shift and unclench as Andre tips forwards, burying his face against Carl’s neck, hot breath pushed against his own pulse point beating rapidly. Andre’s cock lies heavy and flushed against Carl’s stomach. He rubs his hands down Andre’s back, resting one flat against the small of his back, his other cupping Andre’s hip to pull him in, to arch his back that little bit more, until Andre lets out another shuddering breath, bites back a quiet moan as his cock gets trapped between their stomachs, the friction of sweat-damp skin and the coarse hair that leads down from below Andre’s belly button to his crotch.

“Can you come untouched?” Carl wants to know, he has to ask. He opens his eyes, tilts his head to lick over Andre’s ear. He can feel Andre shudder against him, can feel the shake of his head against his neck. Fuck, why did they start this here? Carl wants to be somewhere where he can spread Andre out, somewhere they don’t have to huddle against the chill Parisian morning air, somewhere he can take his time and see what reactions he can draw out of him, not just these quiet, breathy moans and shudders. He wants to pull Andre away from his shoulder so that he can see his face, wants to make him cry out from being fucked so good, wants to see whether he can’t make him come by just fucking his arse, maybe by just fingering him even.

But they aren’t alone; they’re in the fucking guest bedroom of Jev’s flat, with the door half open, and when Carl glances up over Andre’s shoulder at the door, the figure he can see lingering in the shadow just inside the hallway makes him instinctively pull Andre tighter against his body protectively.

Andre bucks against him, letting out a soft whine, and Carl flexes his hips, propping up one foot against the mattress for more leverage, feeling the sudden bolt of adrenaline ignite inside him. He pulls on the blanket, dragging it high enough to cover all of Andre’s back, to leave nothing but the back of his head in view. He curls his hand there, keeping him from straightening, from looking around, the increasingly desperate sounds Andre makes stifled against his skin. Andre clutches at his sides, fingers digging into Carl’s flanks almost painfully. He closes his eyes, licking over Andre’s ear again, the quiet murmurs of encouragement too low for anyone else to hear, lost under their own harsh breathing.

When Andre comes, it’s with his teeth biting at Carl’s neck, one of his hands wormed between their bodies to jerk on his dick, the wetness of his spunk spreading between their stomachs. Carl can feel him clench around him, all tight, quivering heat, and lets himself be dragged along after barely a handful of thrusts later. It’s hard to catch his breath with Andre’s weight sagging onto him, but Carl just wraps his arms around him tighter, holding him close through a full body shiver that lasts long seconds.

When he opens his eyes to take in the room around them, the door to the hallway is closed.


End file.
